


Fury

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Community: kinkelot, Episode: s02e12 The Fires of Idirsholas, Fix-It, Gen, Post Series 2, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana had other ghosts to fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fury

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the spanking is dub-con, and there are implications of mind control or magical manipulation (not by the main characters in the story).

The forest sang brightly around her. Sunlight broke through the canopy in patches, like gold ribbons spilling down green silk. The whole world dreamed of morning and cheered for it. All except Morgana.

She walked carefully in the slippers she'd been wearing that fateful day six months ago. Her indoor shoes, casual, with the roses that Gwen embroidered on them. She hadn't known to wear anything else. No one had woken her that morning and said, 'put on a clean underdress and your best gown and some sensible boots, Morgana. Today's the day you almost die.' Usually her dreams told her those sorts of details, but she hadn't dreamt since the first time she saw Morgause.

At the thought of Morgause, her wrist itched. She scratched absently under the bracelet with her nails, accustomed to the feeling, and barely noticed how thoughts of her dreams slipped from her mind like water from a cracked bowl.

With her new cloak swirling around her, she walked carefully across the moss-covered ground until she came to the ruins of the old henge, abandoned long before the Romans came. The druids walked among these toppled stones sometimes, but never alone and never after dark. It was still bright day, though, and Morgana had other ghosts to fear more.

Seating herself on a fallen sentinel stone, she waited.

They took a long time in coming. The sun rose a full handspan before she heard the first puff and blow of their tired horses. One whickered softly, plaintively, and an unmistakable voice answered in low tones, "Not far now, girl. Not far now."

There was no excuse for her heartbeat speeding up like this. She didn't miss him. She didn't miss _any_ of them.

"Arthur." Another voice, higher in pitch and rawer, like it was scraped out of the throat it came from. When she looked up, she could see Merlin looking right at her across the clearing, his horse turned sideways as if to ride past but his body twisted as far as it could to center on her like a hound on the scent, quivering. She couldn't read his eyes at this distance, but the curl of his shoulders spoke of fear.

"Morgana!" Arthur turned and dismounted quickly, tying his mare up. Then he strode across the grass with ground-eating steps, his feet swallowing up the distance in giant gulps as his eyes drank in the sight of her. His hands were out, reaching her first, touching her face. He wasn't wearing gloves.

"_Morgana_."

This, then, had been a lie. Her wrist itched harder now, but Morgana tipped her face up and said (low, her voice scratching its way out), "Arthur."

He probably didn't mean to hug her, because he never did that. But those were his arms around her, and that was his face buried in her shoulder, and it was nothing like being held by his father because Arthur had never treated her like a child, nor expected her to be grateful for his affection. Instead, he held her like she could never break, squeezed her and lifted her until her toes barely touched the ground and laughter tried to bubble up from somewhere she'd forgotten.

She put her hand on his shoulder and shoved half-heartedly. "Put me down! I can't breathe."

Slowly, reluctantly, he eased his grip and stood back far enough that she could see his face. His hands were on her waist and he still had that expression like he was drinking her in, like he wanted to know everything that had happened but couldn't ask. Behind him, Merlin dismounted like an arthritic old man and tied his horse to the same tree, taking an uncommon amount of time with the task.

Suspicion roused in her again, and the itch in her wrist lessened.

Arthur noticed the direction of her gaze and followed it, calling out, "Merlin, hurry up! You've trained with Gaius. I want you to check the Lady Morgana for injury."

For one moment, she and Merlin stared at Arthur in perfectly mirrored shock, and then Morgana let out a peal of laughter that reminded her of her sister on a good day. The sound echoed through the stones around them, bright with irony, before it spilled into the forest and was muffled.

"Yes, Merlin," she called, wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes, "do come and see how I am." She was almost certain now that Morgause had told the truth about Merlin, about what he'd done, and it gave her a strange sense of freedom. Freedom to direct her anger at someone in an uncomplicated way. Merlin had betrayed her; she could be angry with him for that. All she had to balance against it were his friendship with Gwen and the few times he'd tried and failed to help her. It wasn't like hating Uther or Arthur or, gods forbid, Gwen.

She could almost be grateful to Merlin.

He scuttled forward from the refuge of the horses, moving like a kicked dog, or a dog who expected to be kicked. Morgana hated him for that, too. Hated him for trying to stir pity in her heart. But still, she had to be sure before she purged her anger on him. Despite the renewed itching (nearly burning) sensation in her wrist, she had to be certain first. Because Arthur was here, and Arthur cared about Merlin.

Arthur was saying, "I thought it was a trap, when I got the note-"

But Morgana wasn't listening. She was looking at Merlin, watching him pick his way across the uneven ground, eyes downcast, hands curled into loose fists. Every step he took was like a beacon of guilt. Her gut clenched, and she tasted acid on the back of her tongue.

"-Morgana?" Arthur was looking at her strangely now. He must have felt the way she receded from him with every step Merlin took, as if the physical distance were transforming into emotional. If Merlin were to touch her, she thought, if he were to dare touch her-

"Morgana." Arthur's hands gripped her shoulders, but it was Merlin who stood behind him, Merlin who wouldn't raise his eyes. And Morgana had to know.

"Did you," she whispered, "did you-?"

She hated herself for sounding like a child, but she hated him more when he looked away, when he wouldn't even lift his eyes to hers but instead fixed them on a trio of stones off to his left.

"I had no choice," he whispered, his voice so small it was nearly taken by a passing breeze. "Arthur was going to die, and everyone else after."

"That's not true," Morgana told him. Her voice came out kinder than she expected. "She wouldn't have killed anyone but Uther, not even Arthur once he fell asleep."

Merlin's face jerked right, his eyes snapping to hers, wide with shock. "I- she- that's not what Kylga-"

"Dragons and wizards are not to be trusted." Of the things Morgause had taught her, that one stuck most true. "Surely you aren't that naive."

Anguish twisted his features in a familiar way, and suddenly Morgana realized that all along she'd known the truth. She remembered his expression from those moments when her vision had slowly dimmed, poison strangling her breath. He had looked like this, twisted up inside and out like he didn't know how to untangle himself. She had never needed confirmation of his guilt, had never wanted it. For the past six months she had been trapped inside this confusion, this tortuous litany of _why, how, why?_ His confusion, forced onto her. His tangle of fear and duty and secrets and blind devotion, the path her mind walked down every night.

She wanted it to _stop_.

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice held a wealth of questions and the unspoken but clear expectation that they would be answered. Well, maybe they would. Morgana didn't much care one way or the other. But she would have her revenge now. She would have silence in her head tonight.

The burning in her wrist subsided to a dull ache.

"What do you want?" Merlin asked her.

She showed her teeth in a parody of a smile. "I want you to let me punish you."

He nodded. "How?"

Well, that was unexpected. For him to just go with it - he must want something out of this. Expiation? Her silence in front of Arthur? Information? No, she wouldn't make it that easy. It had to be something he wouldn't want to do in front of Arthur.

(Something that wouldn't make Arthur hate her, her traitor mind supplied.)

When Uther had wanted to humiliate her as a child, he had always - oh. Yes.

"Trousers down and over my knee," she told him as she sat back down on the stone, cheerfully anticipating his shock.

But it was Arthur who sputtered, face going red as he said, "Morgana, what-? You can't. That's." And after a deep breath, "What's this all about? One of you had better tell me right now, or so help me I'll-"

"It's okay, Arthur," said Merlin, unbuckling his belt. "I owe it to her."

"But _why_?"

Yes, Morgana thought, that's what we all want to know. Out loud, she said, "I'm right-handed."

"I remember."

He shuffled up to stand over her, and for a moment she regretted choosing this punishment as he awkwardly turned away to unlace his breeches. The backs of his ears blushed red; she couldn't look at the rest of him.

But then it was over and he was turning and dropping to his knees, leveraging himself carefully over her lap so he touched her as little at possible. He looked ridiculous, fingers splayed on the ground in front of him for balance, trousers pooling around his boots, head tucked in between his outstretched arms so he wouldn't have to look at her or Arthur.

Arthur. Oh bloody hell, she'd forgotten Merlin wouldn't be the only one in an embarrassing position, and now she couldn't bring herself to look up. Well, Arthur would think what he would think. She wasn't the one in the wrong here.

She had to pull up Merlin's shirt to get to his arse, and she decided not to pussy-foot about it. Grabbing the hem, she yanked it up firmly and exposed him.

His skin was pale in the midday sun, and for a moment she thought to just leave him like that, let the sun turn him red in its own time. But she could feel the way he trembled wherever he couldn't help but touch her, and she remembered how he'd held her while she shuddered and choked and thought she was dying. With a huff she pushed that memory away from her, furiously shoved it right out of her chest and brought her hand down sharply on his upturned bottom.

Merlin cried out, digging his fingers into the ground. A moment later, Morgana's hand began to sting.

Across Merlin's pale skin now lay a line of bright pink, and as she stared at it, Morgana felt something inside her loosen. This, yes, she could- with her anger she could-

She brought her hand down again, and again, and again. The crack of each blow and Merlin's cries echoed around the clearing in much the same way that her bitter laughter had earlier, but far more cathartic. She set herself to darkening his skin with a will, letting the tingling pain in her own hand be a gage. _Does this hurt enough? No, not yet._ It didn't hurt as much as she had then, so it wasn't enough. A voice in her head suggested she could take off her slipper and use that, but she brushed it aside. She wanted to know exactly how much Merlin was feeling.

At first he held himself carefully, but there came a point when he began to sag, leaning more weight on her knees. She took it gladly. She wanted him limp and wrung out and useless. She wanted him helpless and crying like a little boy. She wanted a reaction. She wanted him to _fight back, dammit-_

"Morgana."

She looked up, startled, into the dazzling sun. It took a moment or two before her eyes could adjust to see Arthur's face, instead of just a silhouette against the bright sky.

"Morgana," he said again, his hand coming up to touch her cheek. "That's enough."

She shook her head.

"That's enough," he said again, with more force, but she knew he was wrong. It wasn't enough. Merlin hurt, yes, Merlin was hurt, but the anger still burned inside her. Her wrist still burned. She wanted more. She needed-

"Let him go, Morgana."

She shook her head again, clutching at Merlin's limp, shivering body. It wouldn't be enough until she was empty of all of these feelings he had dumped into her and stirred and stirred until they felt like they would never settle.

"Let him go, and I'll take his place."

She blinked and bit her lip, considering. Merlin was a heavy weight across her legs, barely balancing himself anymore. Merlin wouldn't fight back. Hitting Merlin was like hitting the placid little pony she'd ridden as a child. It made her more angry because she felt disgusted with herself.

Arthur would fight her.

She nodded once, sharply, not trusting her voice. She let Arthur ease Merlin off her lap and lean him over the stone, not bothering to try and put his clothes back in order. For some reason she didn't feel much as she watched. Something inside her was going numb like her hand. Even when Arthur blushed slightly and stood to unlace his own trousers, she felt no more than a passing curiosity. Then he was down and over her lap, a good deal heavier and wider than Merlin, filling the whole space between her belly and her knees and then some.

The first time she hit him it was almost an experiment. _Will he really let me do this?_ Arthur didn't even let out a breath, and then she had her challenge.

_Make him bellow for it._

She started off with a numb hand, which helped, while Arthur had been riding all day. It took only a dozen or so blows before he was grunting softly with each one, trying to hold the sounds behind his teeth. Morgana felt a tiny burst of bitter satisfaction. She could do better, though.

She changed up the spot, smacking the upper part of his thighs and then the tender underside of his bottom, where she knew he was sore from riding. His grunts shifted, lengthened and became more nasal until they were short whines, punctuated by puffs of air every time her hand connected. When she could wring no more out of him that way, she picked a spot and stuck to it, landing blow after blow on the same cheek until he lost control and his jaw loosened, releasing a yell.

After that it was just a matter of keeping up the pressure, raining down blows as Arthur tried not to squirm, each sound that burst out of him a victory for her. She was winning, she was hurting him, she was... she was....

Arthur?

Her hand slowed, then stopped. Why was she-? A flair of pain in her right wrist made her cry out and tumble Arthur off her knees onto the ground. She clapped her hand over the bracelet, feeling it burn against the tender skin.

"Morgana? Morgana!"

Arthur was up again and his fingers were on hers, peeling them back one by one so he could grip the bracelet and tug it off in one quick motion, tossing it across the clearing to clink against another stone. It lay in the grass, silent.

Morgana stared at her wrist in shock. It was perfectly smooth, the skin unmarred. And the itch, the incessant itch, was gone. She could still hear Morgause's voice in her mind, but it was distant and less compelling, more like Uther's now. She couldn't even make out most of the words.

"Arthur?" She didn't want her voice to tremble, to come out thick and wet. She didn't want a lot of things that were true.

"Sh," he whispered. And yes, he was awkward when he hugged her, because he was Arthur and at some point he would remember that he didn't hug. At some point shuffling around on his knees with his legs trapped in his trousers was going to become too much for his overstrained dignity. At some point, he was going to gather up what was left of his dignity and leave her here to wonder when her life had cracked, or if it had always been broken.

But for now, before everything fell apart again, maybe she could rest her forehead on Arthur's shoulder and let him stroke her hair the way she'd done for him when they were little and he woke to nightmares about killing his mother. The way she'd held Gwen after her father died. Maybe it was okay to still need this sometimes. Maybe-

Blindly, her hand reached out across the stone and met Merlin's halfway, fingers tangling as they held on tight.

**Author's Note:**

> For Miakun, for creating [Kinkelot](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkelot) and being generally awesome. I can't write caning or whipping, bb, but hopefully this will suffice. Originally posted [on Dreamwidth](http://briar-pipe.dreamwidth.org/16963.html).
> 
> Also, I mangled a line from LeGuin here. It's in common usage now, but attribution is good.


End file.
